Pushpins and Poetry
by InkStainedFire
Summary: In the beginning there was the Word. At least that's what Meggie thinks. T for mentions of sex. Meggie/Dustfinger.


A/N: This is pretty much my first fanfic, so feel free to chastise me for doing something wrong. And yes, it is Meggie/Dustfinger. Sorry if you don't like the pairing, but I do.

A couple of things to note: This is AU after Inkheart. Inkspell and Inkdeath never happened. Why? 'Cause that means I get to ignore the existence of Roxane completely. Yay!

Secondly, this is not a commentary on religion. It's simply an idea that popped in my head one day and I went "Yeah, that could work."

Thirdly, I didn't state an age for Meggie simply because depending on what part of the world you're from, the age of consent varies. For example, the US generally goes with 18, but if you hop over to Italy, it's 16. So let's just suffice it to say that in my fics, Meggie will always be of age and we won't be having to worry about Dustfinger's descent into pedophilia. No Lolitas allowed.

And lastly, even though I've begged him time and time again to be mine, he still refuses. Thus Dustfinger, like everything else Inkheart, belongs to Cornelia Funke and not me.

**Pushpins and Poetry**

In the beginning, there was the Word, and the Word was God.

At least, that's how she thinks it goes. Mo never believed in the validity of heaven and hell, God and the Devil; of that she's certain. He's told her more than once over the years that it was us mere humans that came up with Lucifer, Satan, the Devil, Iblis…whatever your preference or religion demands you call him, so it stands to reason he doesn't put much stock in his arch-enemy either.

Sometimes it makes sense to her, though. Not God and the mysteries of the universe or the epic battle of good and evil in the pursuit of men's souls, but the idea that it all came from the Word. After all, possessing the gift she does, having seen men emerge from no more than ink and paper, it seems…appropriate.

And so it not difficult for her to imagine the beginning -in all its voids and nothingness and constant darkness- that someone with a tongue of silver could speak four words into desolation and have it turn to brightness.

"Let there be light" the voice would say, and it would surely happen.

She shares this rather random train of thought with Dustfinger one night (morning?) as they revel in the feel of cool sheets plastered to sweat-soaked skin, a consequence both of the balmy summer air and their previous activities.

- _bodies arching into one another, calloused hands running over too-smooth skin, moans dutifully restrained in an effort not to awaken Mo or Resa or _heavens above what is that good-for-nothing matchstick swallower doing to my great niece and you better not have hurt any of my books in the process _Elinor-_

He doesn't even pretend to understand what she's saying, and she likes it better that way, she thinks. At least she knows he's being truthful for once. At least she knows in this moment she can trust him.

He picks up a pen from her bedside table and traces three words onto her stomach with agonizingly slow, shaky hands that leave an adult's words looking like no more than a child's scribbles, yet as Meggie tries to make out the upside-down letters scrawled on her body, she feels a sense of permanence and awe no other words have ever caused in her before. She's not sure if the truth of earlier moments has left them already, but if it has, in this one moment she's willing to accept the lie.

Dustfinger's "I love you" may be messy, but he's accomplished something neither she nor her father ever could. He's brought the words to life without ever opening his mouth.

When she's old enough not to need her parents' permission, she'll get four different words tattooed on her right shoulder, leaving Dustfinger to press his lips to each letter every morning as the sun hastens them from their sleep, but not from the unconscious embrace they fall into every night. His marked on words faded from repeat showerings long ago, but she knows his were eternal in a way these words born of needle and ink never will be.

Still, as he sounds the passage out with more than the hint of a smirk on his voice, she knows they were the right words to get.

"Let there be light."


End file.
